Behind each tree
The bend of branch,
Bent back to stumps.
Russ, rode his bicycle up hill. The chain grinding with his progress. He’d spent the day at work. He’d gone on coffee break with an old girlfriend. She sat with chin on the back of her hands, delicate, eyes sharp on him. She listened, he spoke. All he spoke of was work. He built the platform for conversation; his voice was the loudest in the cafe, it made her feel self aware maybe.
After everything; she knew him so well he felt. Even with the amount of time they’d now been apart.
But she’d just sat there. Transfixed. Offering a smile, sometimes a nod or a question. What was she thinking. They were different now. He was brought back from his thoughts to the grinding sound that had started at the point the peddles of his bicycle joined the main part of the bike frame. It sounded rusted. Had it dried poorly from last weeks rain? Rust? Or in need of oil.
Why was the sound so offensive. He dismounted the bike, annoyed at the task that faced him now and in the not so distant future. What had she been thinking? Why had all he talked about work? He wanted to hear about her. But she’d gone. And now she was really gone.
Mistakes plagued him. Russ had a reasonable mind. Reason was his game. His life. He’d sit quietly at social events and legitimate conversations he’d overhear with his logical mind. But mostly just sigh or he’d scoff at the lunacy and wasteful idiocy surrounding him. Common people, common thoughts, commonplace. “MORON” & “COMMON”. Two of the most hurtful words around; he felt. And he saved them for only those deemed truly blessed with the banality, exit spark, fare-thee-well unique. Justified, undignified people without the belief of any self empowerment or glimmer. Just ants. Worker ants. Soulless. Following their basic desires. Informed unmindfully. The line walkers. Robots.
To what end. Why had he let himself slip. Why had he tried so much to open up to this old squeeze. The mundane platform of conversation he’d started. “work, work, work, work, work”. He was better than that. He’d arrived home. Angry.
He put the kettle on. The kettle must always be boiled. Going into the bathroom he locked the door and jiggled the handle. Human nature. He smiled at his glorious mind. He lived alone, but still he did this menial task, smiling every time. Like when he skipped and did criss-cross. A raw outbreak of glee would take him. Strange, he thought but doubly hilarious. Naughty.
Nose almost touching the glass of his bathroom mirror, exhaling so as not to fog up his reflection he met his own eyes. Staring past the deep blue, the intricate pattern. His eyeballs fingerprints. The world. The landscapes. Vast colour. Shattering reverberations of could. Deeper. His pupils dilate. Focus, un-focus. Grow then shrink. He’d exhale. They’d grow. His chin lowered. His dark brows bordering his vision. His eyelashes, always absent, invisible to his direct sight. He’d never wondered at that before. His pupils pulse. Big. Small. Like a heartbeat. He felt a narcissistic spike. His breath tightened. He noticed his pulse under the flesh of his neckline, just above his collarbone. He breathed though his teeth, a slight mist. He felt angry still. Animalistic. He felt dangerous. A rush. High almost. A power. Colours faded, just his dark, dark eyes, glinting, fierce. Like he could kill. Cold angry murder.
He exhaled again. Deeply this time, fogging the glass completely. His face’s reflection blurring into mist. As the edges of white receded, he was smiling. His disposition had changed. A smile dawned his face. The natural charming, friendly face of a passerby. Trusted acquaintance maybe, possibly someone worth talking too. Taking the time out of your day to say ‘hello’. Yes, he thought. He was whatever he wanted people to see.
“It starts in the eyes”
He soaped his hands and washed his face.
Dinner was buckwheat noodles in carrot and chicken stock broth. It tasted of salt. He was early to bed so he examined his body with his left hand. Pushing on every inch of his own skin. He clenched his right hand into a fist and continued his search. The creative side of his mind, demonstrating a patience of wonder and care. His right hand flexed with the rate of his heartbeat. It was an eclipse tomorrow. Remarkable- he thought. The stars tonight would be worth a moment’s notice as well. Maybe there’d be a shooting star or two.
He rubbed his eyes with both hands, he’d stopped his little game.
Maybe I should grow a herb garden? He discarded the thought, wondering at his mental filter. Why had this thought come to him? Was it the carrot in his soup taking control or influencing him. How quickly had he digested it? He was tired. He’d talked too much today. Wasted energy on things that didn’t matter. His bike needed to be oiled. A million menial tasks, all with different possible means to their completion. It was a wonder he felt like he was in control. Would he get every task done? His eyes looked over his bare room.
Control is my construct. I will-view my world.
Wanting, is my minds energy.
Doing is blessing. Choice is my power.
Air is my fuel. Silence is my playground.
Needing is my death.
Peace dashed, and-
my my, what follows.
I rinsed the bowel. A white ceramic. Hair, Nails, Ears and Nose. They’ve all grown. Bed will give me some time to consolidate. Force yourself to lay down, alone in the dark. Russ.